Merciless
by Constant Distraction
Summary: When faced with a situation that leaves countless lives in her hands, will Andromache's paranoia lead her to a decision she will regret? HA, not moviebased.


**Merciless **

A/N: I haven't written anything in awhile, so I figured I'd start in with a oneshot before revising and continuing 'Haunted By Bliss.' It's from Andromache's POV, and I'm going with the idea that the Greeks didn't stay at Troy for a full ten years, but traveled back and forth when they were able. It just wouldn't be wise for them to leave their lands, crops, and families unprotected for so long.

Enjoy!

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Everyone has a favorite day of the year. Most people look forward to a favorite festival—Cassandra, I know, anticipates celebrations in the name of Apollo. Paris and Helen enjoy the festival of Aphrodite, for it is the one time when their love is considered a blessing instead of the curse it has proven to be. Though he is modest about his talents, Hector enjoys all festivals involving contests of horsemanship, chariot racing, footraces, or wrestling, as he is often the victor of such games. Even my little Astyanax loves observing the events. He claps his chubby hands and grins as he watches the dances and contests.

I, too, have a favorite day. Unlike the festivals, mine is never announced in advance or prepared for, though it is widely anticipated by all Trojans. The Achaeans have been sporadically attacking Ilium for eight years now. They remain in their homeland while there are local disputes to settle, or when there is planting or harvesting to do. As soon as their schedule permits, they sail across the wide Aegean and lay siege to our city once more. For months at a time, they shred every hope of peace, and death haunts the steps of our soldiers. Every morning Hector leaves my side and returns in the evening with his golden skin marred by dark bruises and swollen, irritated wounds. And every night I dream of the crows that circle over the battlefield, only they dive to the ground to feast on the flesh of my beloved husband, brothers, and even my son.

It is no wonder, then, that I yearn for the day the Achaeans return to their pressing matters at home. There is never any warning of this. Their ships rest on Trojan sand at sundown, and they simply vanish by dawn, leaving nothing but rubbish belonging to men they have lost. No festival can compare to the way my heart soars when I peer over the great wall and see only warm sand, the glittering sea, and endless sky instead of the hated enemy ships.

Today was one of those days.

Unable to sleep, I rose before Helios began his journey across the broad sky. Leaving Hector sprawled out on our bed, I walked alone to the royal platform that overlooked the plain. My stomach tied itself in knots of nervousness and hope as I scanned the shore. It was blissfully empty. The Achaeans were gone, leaving the promise of a few months of peace.

A shriek of excitement bubbled up in my throat, but even in the quiet privacy of the early morning, I would not release it. I lifted my trailing gown to my knees and raced back to the palace, not pausing until I reached my chambers.

Hector was awake, but barely. Recent wounds were painfully obvious on his bare skin as he reached for his armor, eyes still heavily lidded from fatigue. Upon seeing me, a question formed on his lips, but I leapt in with the news before he could speak.

"They're gone! They have returned home!"

Those words certainly woke him up. All signs of weariness left his face, replaced by a joyous grin. No more words were necessary. I flew into his arms. Relief had relaxed his normally tense limbs, and I could see that he was looking forward to a few months of peace as much as I was.

And now it was truly time for celebration. In the years that the Achaeans have been coming to our shores, a new tradition has been created. On the day the enemy ships depart, every Trojan in the city ventures to the beach, which we have been unable to visit for months. We pick through the things our enemies have left behind. The children especially enjoy this. Anything of value is kept, and the rubbish is tossed together in one pile to be burned. Then the Trojan youth dance around the fire, and the thick plumes of smoke drift to the heavens as thanks to the gods.

I left Hector dressing in civilian clothes and went to fetch our son from his nurse. Astyanax was sitting up in his tiny bed, playing with a wooden dog his father had carved for him. His nurse dozed beside him. He clumsily got to his feet, holding his arms out to me. The dog clattered to the floor, forgotten.

"Mama!" He called. I scooped him up, pressing a kiss to his wild, curly hair. We left the room quickly, for I did not wish to interrupt his nurse's well-earned rest. Astyanax bounced in my arms, anticipating an adventure.

"Horsey?" he asked. A month before, Hector had let the boy sit on the back of his favorite stallion (on his father's lap, of course). To Hector's great joy, our son seemed to share his great love for the beasts.

"No, love. Even better. The bad men have left, and we're going down to the beach," I explained. And though I knew he was too young to fully comprehend the situation, his carefree grin reflected exactly what I felt.

Within an hour, almost the entire population of the city was trekking across the Trojan plain. Children raced ahead of everyone, and even the commanders were content to have others take the lead. Astyanax rested obediently in my arms, his dark eyes wide with excitement. Hector strode along, staying close to my side, his face open and content. I could not remember being so happy in a long time.

The sea sparkled welcomingly, and waves stretched their fingers to stroke the items the Achaeans left. The shoreline was littered with more debris than our enemies usually parted with. They had lost many men, and probably did not have enough soldiers to sail their entire fleet home. Hector estimated that they had probably sunken four ships, and the amount of things they had left behind seemed to support this. Planks from boats had washed up on the sand, along with ripped sails and pottery, both broken and intact. Coarse, poorly made tunics lay crumpled in the sand. A few wooden idols and dented bangles were scattered among the wreckage. Though the Achaeans had surely taken everything their remaining ships could carry, they left an exciting array of treasures.

And then there were the bodies that they had left unburied in their haste to depart. I could spot a few from where I stood, covered in sand and dried blood.

The children shrieked their delight, racing toward the treasures and shouting to their friends when they found something of interest. Astyanax had not fussed when I carried him across the plain, but now he wriggled impatiently, wanting to be free. I set him down gently. "I can look after him," Hector offered, taking his hand. The pair walked forward, Astyanax walking as quickly as he could on his young, unsteady feet to keep pace with his father.

I followed more slowly, letting the more excited people of Troy hurry past me. _Leave the treasures to them,_ I thought. I had peace, and that was enough.

But then a sharp glint caught my eye. I whipped my head to the left, but all I saw was a towering, rotting portion of a ship and the shadow it created. The wood was taller than I, and easily half as long as my bedroom wall. There did not appear to be anything in that area, so the scavengers had avoided it. I would have turned away, but the sunlight glinted off the glassy waves and illuminated the mysterious object once more. My curiosity overwhelmed me, and I started toward the shade.

It was easy to find, even half-hidden by the warm sand. The Achaeans had overlooked an intricately engraved copper platter. A scene was carved on its surface—a battle scene, perhaps? A hunting party? It would make a fine addition to Priam's halls. I knelt to free it from the ground's grasp, and that was when a grip of iron closed around my wrist.

My stomach shot into my throat, making it impossible to scream. I tried to yank my hand away, but only succeeding in twisting my wrist. The rush of pain brought tears to my eyes. It took me a moment to realize I was being spoken to. "Do not call for help," the low, raspy voice ordered. "I will not harm you if you do as I say. I need your help."

I complied. I hated myself for my obedience, but I was too frightened to do anything else. I looked around desperately for a rescuer, but everyone had moved much farther along the beach.

"I have no weapons," the voice continued, and the strange accent registered in my mind. I guessed it was Achaean, though I could not say which nation. I finally stepped into the shadows, letting my eyes adjust until I could see who I was trapped by.

A soldier—a young one. He wore plain armor, and his brown hair was plastered to his brow, from the sun's heat or from fever. He had no weapons that I could see. Scanning his lower body, I felt nauseated. His right leg was bent in two places where bone is never meant to bend. The skin of his calf stretched taut over the snapped bone. It was a wonder it had not torn through the skin.

"They left me," he continued, and his tone was somewhat bitter. "They managed to overlook me; it's easy to forget a wounded soldier. No one wants to deal with injured men. My father had some healing skill, but he was slain only days ago by Prince Hector."

The sound of my husband's name leaving the lips of an Achaean hardened my heart. Paranoia slipped into my mind, but I fought it off. "You are certain he was killed by Hector?" I asked. They were the first words I had spoken since being snatched. My voice sounded weak even to my own ears.

"Yes." Something flickered across his face in the instant he said it. It was almost too quick for my eyes to catch, but I had no doubt it was hatred. "Please. My leg pains me, and I have had no fresh water since yesterday. Help me. Heal me, and send me home. I'll pay you," he added fervently. "Silver, or gold. Copper platters, like the one you came here for. I do not have the payment now, but I will get it somehow. With the gods as my witnesses, I will get it."

Help him? It was not unheard of. Captives taken by both Achaeans and Trojans are often sold into slavery or ransomed back to their own cities, depending on which will pay more. This circumstance was not much different. I glanced back at his leg. Although it was a severe injury, the Trojan healers could fix it. Maybe he would never be able to use it fully, but at least he could hobble around. He was young enough that he had the advantage of healing quickly.

Yet a much less rational voice in my mind spoke out, advising against this. Somehow, I could not put aside the fact that Hector had recently killed his father. "He is commander," I said softly. "He fights for the Trojans, to keep them safe."

Puzzlement crept onto the soldier's features. "I do not dispute this," he commented softly. "We are at war, and many men are lost."

"Yes. He was only doing his duty. You cannot fault him for that. Your father was one of many, but even vengeance will not bring him back to life. Do you understand that?" The words that tumbled from my lips seemed slightly crazed, but I had to say them. The Achaean seemed almost fearful now. "It is a pity that your father is gone, but you can do nothing to change it."

"I do not intend to try to change it," he said, and for the first time I heard true desperation in his voice. As I look back on it, I wish I had seen it as just that: the desperation to live, nothing more. But somehow his tone of voice only increased my suspicions.

He would like nothing better than to send my husband to the halls of Hades.

Perhaps he would not try to attack Hector while he healed in Troy, as he would surely be killed himself. The citizens of Troy worship Hector as if he is a god. But if we healed this soldier, and sent him home, he would only return to our battlefield. Hindered by his leg, he might not be able to fight as he once did, but he could make himself useful as an archer. And Hector would be his prized target.

It seems irrational now, does it not? But as I looked at him, and felt the heat of his hand around my wrist, an unbearable flood of paranoia rose in me. "You only want life so you can take that gift away from others!" I screamed shrilly, and the rotting curved wood I stood under caused my voice to echo across the beach.

"No!" he cried. "You must believe me! I will not avenge my father!" His grip tightened as he pleaded, and again I was amazed at his strength. The weight of his arm on mine made it difficult to stand, but I feared falling to my knees on the sand.

"Let me go!" I shrieked, but he did not comply, squeezing my aching wrist as he pleaded with me. "Let me go!" I said again, feeling new tears in my eyes, both from the pain and his fear.

"Princess Andromache!" A Trojan guard raced toward me, wood and torn cloth in his arms. He scattered his load as he ran—he must have been bringing back rubbish for the bonfire. A few other people behind him looked up as they heard his shout. He was at my side in an instant, drawing a long dagger as his eyes adjusted to the shadows and he assessed the situation.

"Drop her hand!" he barked, and the Achaean did so. The pain in my wrist seemed to increase as the heat of his hand left it, and I brought it close to my chest, rubbing the sore skin.

"I have no weapons," he said. "My leg is broken; I am no threat." There were more Trojans now, crowding around to see was happening. Two of Hector's guards stood near me protectively, glaring down at the Achaean. However, he pressed on. "If you heal me, and send me home to Argos, I will pay you. Silver, gold, whatever you desire."

"Perhaps we would consider your request more kindly, had you not harmed the princess," the guard with the dagger growled. I stopped massaging my wrist. "I think it fit to leave you at her mercy now," he continued, drawing his knife away from the soldier's throat.

Dozens of pairs of Trojan eyes fixed on me, along with a single pair of dark Achaean orbs. Was the guard truly leaving this decision in my hands? I scanned the crowd for someone who would take over for me. The sight of Hector, Priam, Hecuba, or even Paris would never have been more welcome. But I did not see them. I was alone in this decision.

The Achaean's gaze drew my own. His face was twisted into a heartbreaking expression of hope and fear. I could let him live. I could easily have him healed and sent back to Argos. I had no doubt that he would be true to his word, and send us payment.

And then he could return to fight. Maybe he would not make it his mission to bring my husband down in the dust, but he would still be a danger. There would be one more enemy, ready to bring sorrow to Trojan wives. By letting him live, I could be allowing the deaths of their husbands.

Or my own.

My hesitation must have frightened him. Soldiers rarely cry, but I swear he was on the verge of tears. "Let me go home," he begged, in a voice only loud enough for me to hear.

Let him live to kill. Let him live to spill Trojan blood on the earth. Let him live to see the vultures landing on the body of my Hector.

"Kill him," I ordered, my voice eerily calm, a complete contrast to the madness I felt within. I did not look away from the Achaean, but I could sense the disbelief that surrounded me. It was in the heavy silence of the crowd, and in the hesitation of the guard who pulled his gleaming dagger from his sheath.

The Achaean would not look away. He held his breath, perhaps waiting for me to speak up again and change my command. But I only repeated the words, and at that point, his eyes lost all hope.

The guard looked at me and I sensed his reluctance. Clearly he thought I would let the man live. But it was an order, and he had to obey. He lifted the dagger above his head, and, kneeling swiftly, shoved it through the Achaean's light armor into his stomach.

He cried out and I felt the need to be sick. I wanted to scream at the guard to stop, but it was too late. He pulled the blade upward, toward the center of the man's chest, and his blood and innards spilled out onto the sand. For a moment I thought I was screaming, but it was the soldier. His dark eyes shone with agony, caused by none other than myself. Accusations howled through my mind: I was a beast, a murderer, and I deserved an eternity in the darkest pits of Hades. And then his screams stopped, and his chest ceased its labored rise and fall, but his eyes stayed locked with mine; as if he would carry my merciless image with him into the underworld.

The guard did not kill him. I was responsible.

I could no longer make the effort to contain my sobs, although ordinarily it would have shamed me to weep in front of so many proud Trojans. The pain of my throbbing wrist meant little to me now, but still the guards seemed concerned. "We will take you to a healer, my lady," one said, nervously trying to inspect it. He meant to lure me away from the body, but he could not move me. "Please come, my lady," he asked again, no doubt worried about what Hector would say if he knew I had come to harm and not been cared for.

I did not respond, but only continued sobbing as I stared into the dead soldier's eyes. What had I done?

A strong arm encircled my shoulder, and I felt even worse. Hector had come. What would he think of me now? I let him lead me from the suffocating crowd of people, my tears coming faster with every step. Hector was merciful. If he had been able to make the decision for me, the Achaean would be in a healing room in the city by now.

Hector turned to face me as we escaped the crowd, enveloping me in his arms and pulling me tightly to his chest. I found my voice. "I could not let him live," I whimpered, my words muffled against his tunic. "You killed his father, and I thought that he would kill you, or other husbands, and I panicked--"

"Hush," he said, and I did. He spoke closer to my ear this time, and I could feel his warm breath. "You did what you had to do. Perhaps you are right; he may have returned and killed some of our men." Somehow, the idea seemed unrealistic now. I shook my head. "Andromache, you did what seemed right."

I kept seeing the pain on his face as he lay dying. "They left him at my mercy… he was so young," I muttered, and my voice broke.

"You cannot always show mercy," Hector responded quietly, and it struck me that he, of all people, would know. Then he held me until my sobs ceased and the image of the Achaean whose death I was responsible left only a shadow in my mind. His image would return to me in nightmares for many, many nights to come. In all the years of war to come, I will never again be able to appreciate the day the Achaeans leave as much as I once did. For this year, their departure did not leave me with peace, but with the blood of an innocent on my hands.

I pulled away, leaving a patch of dampness on Hector's tunic from my tears. Behind us, a magnificent bonfire burned, its orange flames greedily consuming the piles of rubbish that lay at its core. Children had already begun to sing and dance around the flames. It was my favorite part of the day that I looked forward to every year.

This year, the fire would also serve as the funeral flames for the Achaean.

I looked at Hector, and wordlessly he motioned to a palace maid. She hurried over, carrying Astyanax. Hector took him into his arms, and taking my uninjured hand, we began the walk back to the city without looking back.

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I feel pretty terrible for writing that. Kinda morbid. I'd really like your feedback on this story, because it's kind of a heavy peice and I'm not sure it came out very clearly. Let me know what you think. Thank you for reading this!

Spider


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